


Bravery Test: A Modern AU

by Jennytheshipper



Series: Mating Habits of the Emperor Penguin [1]
Category: Wolf Hall (TV), Wolf Hall - All Media Types, Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: M/M, This is not the healthy relationship you are looking for, mentions of brexit and pigate and trump, the dreaded topicality, this is a dumpster fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: Tom has a plan to bring his boss' biggest client back to the firm.





	

Tom met Bonvisi for drinks at the American bar at the Metro. He hated this kind of place, with framed autographs of their famous regulars, but he knew Henry Tudor kept a suite at the Metro and he was hoping to run into him.

Bonvisi looked tired. He ordered an espresso and then winced when the sludge-filled little cup arrived. 

“What do the English know about coffee?”

“About as much as the Italians know about booze.”

Bonvisi nodded and smiled. When they’d known each other in Rome, Tom had attempted to try the syrupy tonics the Italians drink before dinner.

“How are things in the city?”

“This Brexit is killing us.”

“I still can’t believe it. Bloody morons. Your family haven’t had any trouble, I hope?”

“No. You would have heard from me before now.” 

Bonvisi’s wife was English. His oldest was at Cambridge with Tom’s son Gregory. 

Tom glanced up at the door. No sign of Henry Tudor yet.

“Are you expecting someone?” Bonvisi asked.

“Sorry, no. Forgive me, my friend. Just wondering where that waitress got to. You want another coffee?”

“No. Do you think they have maybe nocino?”

Tom shuddered. Walnut liqueur. Ghastly stuff. “I doubt it. There’s a Boots across the street. They might have some cough medicine.”

Bonvisi laughed and then lapsed into Italian, telling a long story about his daughter’s pre-school pageant. Bonvisi stopped mid-sentence and began following someone with his eyes. Tom turned to see who it was: a blonde in a well-fitted suit, black tights and a mini skirt. Behind her, just pulling off his sunglasses and taking in the room with a squint, was Henry Tudor. Tom made eye contact with him and he nodded, but carried on following the woman.

“Do you know them?” Bonvisi asked.

“Only just. Henry Tudor was one of Wolsey’s clients for years. And that’s his assistant, Mary Shelton”

“Tudor... is he the one who’s been in the papers? The divorce case, right?”

“His ex-wife and business partner is suing him for control of the company. It’s been dragging on for months.”

Bonvisi’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his breast pocket and read a text with a frown. “Tomaso, I’ve got to cut this short.”

“Trouble at home?”

“I am afraid I am expected to pick up a pizza. The oven is out again.”

“Send my love to Carol and the girls.”

“I will. Every time I see you she says, ‘When is Tomaso going to come round for dinner?’” 

“Perhaps another night,” Tom said, remembering the last time and Carol’s well-meaning but unwelcome questions about his love life. 

“When the oven gets fixed.”

They parted and he ordered another drink. Tom pulled out his phone, pretending to study his calendar, occasionally glancing over at Henry Tudor who was deep in conversation with his companion. He wondered what Tudor’s fiancee would think of the scene.

He scrolled through _The Guardian_ , finding nothing to settle on. His drink arrived. He sent his assistant, Rafe, a text. Rafe sent a squirrel emoji back at him. That was Rafe’s new thing. Random emojis instead of words. Two days ago Tom had asked him to cancel his 1:30 and Rafe had sent a dancing monkey and a beating heart. He went back to _The Guardian_. He settled with the waitress and was about to leave when Mary Shelton walked up to his table. 

“Mr. Tudor wants to know if you would join him for a drink. Or do you have somewhere to be?”

“Thanks. That would be fine.”

He followed her to the booth where she gathered up her coat and purse. “I’ve got a date. I’ll leave you to it,” she said, leaning over and whispering something in Henry’s ear. Tudor nodded and winked at her.

“Sorry, Cromwell. I saw you when we came in but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“My friend had to leave unexpectedly.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Dewars and soda.”

Tudor motioned with his head and the waitress was at the booth in a few seconds, all smiles.

“Bring me another vodka tonic, love. And a scotch and soda for my friend.”

“Dewars,” Tom corrected and she nodded before disappearing to get the drinks. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tudor?”

“Call me Henry.”

“Henry. You can call me Tom if you like.”

“All right then, Tom, I just wanted to find out how Wolsey’s doing. I heard it was a heart attack.”

“A mild one. But the doctor is keeping him away from the office for a few more weeks.”

Tudor made a sympathetic face. “I don’t half miss the old man. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

“Well, I’m sure he’d love to have you back.”

“No joy, I’m afraid. Miss Boleyn doesn’t care for him. There was some bad blood between them, back when she was Catherine’s assistant.”

Tom knew something of the bad blood. Tudor’s fiancee, Anne Boleyn, had once threatened to jump ship with company secrets. Wolsey put an end to it and told Boleyn’s future employer, Percy and Sons, that he’d sue them for corporate espionage.

“Forgive me, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve made much progress with your case since you fired Wolsey.”

“Gardiner’s doing his best, but he’s just not in the same class as the old man.”

“Wolsey never brought me on board because I was tied up with a couple of big real estate deals, but those are more or less done and dusted. If you want we could talk strategy some time. Strictly informally.”

“How about now? Or is this too formal?”

“This is fine.” Their drinks came and Henry insisted on ordering something called “sliders” from the happy hour menu. “How do you like your burger, Tom?”

“Medium rare.”

The waitress informed him that they couldn’t serve rare beef. “Well-done then,” he said, shaking his head. “Why do they even ask?”

“Right, an overdone burger and an over-priced scotch and soda by way of retainer. For your informal opinion.”

“Fair enough. I’d need to look at the details, mind you, but from what I remember of the case, Wolsey had put all his eggs in one basket: break the pre-nup. Am I right?”

“More or less.”

“That was a good opening strategy, but when the first judge threw it out, why all the appeals? Why bring in experts to try to discredit the contract? It was a straightforward document. Jesus, Wolsey drew it up himself before handing it off to Catherine’s attorney.”

“You would have done something else?”

“Yes. A simple strategy: rebrand. Take your name and get out. Set up shop somewhere else. Make Anne Boleyn Queen of Sheba if she likes. You were never going to be able to all work together again anyway. Get out now.”

Henry shook his head. “Your advice is to surrender, then? Is that it?”

“No, no, never say ‘surrender.’ Strategic retreat, if you must. But it would buy you some time. You take your greatest asset with you: the Tudor name.” Henry looked pleased by that last line. Tom had thought it up in the car on the way over. 

“I can’t afford to start a new business. Everything I have is tied up in that company.”

“I have a lot of connections in the city. I can get you a loan on very friendly terms.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Anne would like the idea of giving up without a fight.”

“Who said you would be giving up? There’s the matter of the patents. Your name is on every patent in that company. We could tie her up in the courts for years over those.”

“We could bleed her dry! Anne would like that.”

“Yes, well, I don’t expect that will be necessary. I hope that we can bring her to settlement when she sees what she’s up against.”

“Say we do this. Agree to it, start a new company and everything goes to plan. What about Catherine’s people? They are a rough bunch. I don’t want to cross them.”

He looked in disbelief at Henry Tudor. Now he wanted to be careful not to anger his ex-wife’s family? Wouldn’t the time for that have been before he ran off with her assistant? “You mean that corporate raider nephew of hers, Charles?”

“Yes, would we be vulnerable?”

“Worry about climate change. Worry about the pound. Worry about the American election. Leave Charles to me.”

“He’s not a threat?”

“Like I said, I have a lot of connections in the city. He’s is over-extended at almost every bank in town. You need capital to in his line and Charles doesn’t have it.”

The burgers arrived. Henry ate three to every one of Tom’s, popping the whole tiny burger in his mouth at once. 

“Gentlemen, can I get you another platter? Some more chips maybe?” the waitress asked when she came to clear the plates.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Tom said, patting his stomach. 

The waitress went away. “See here, I feel like celebrating, Tom. For the first time in ages, I actually have hope of resolving this bloody mess. Let’s call Anne. We can go out to dinner.”

‘Dinner? We just ate.”

“Starters!”

Tom laughed. “No, keep me out of this for now. 

“You really mean I can’t tell Anne?”

“Look, if you want to tell her something, say that you’ve got a line on a solution. Be vague.”

“She has a way of winkling things out of me, Tom.”

He smiled. “Fine. Tell her the details if you must, but leave my name out of it.”

“Because you’re still with Wolsey?”

“Exactly. 

“Look, if dinner is out of the question, I’ve got a bottle up in my room. If you like single malt.”

“Of course.”

+++

They sat down on the sofa. Henry reached up and turned on a lamp and poured the drinks. He was sitting too close. Tom tried to scoot away, but Henry only shifted his weight and managed to slide closer as if they were being pulled together by gravity. Habit probably, decades of maneuvering women into vulnerable positions.

“To freedom,” Henry said, and he raised his glass with one hand and slapped the other down on Tom’s knee. 

Tom jumped a little at the unexpected contact. “To freedom.” He swallowed some whiskey, enjoying the alcohol burn. He reached up, loosened his tie, and leaned back into the firm sofa cushions. He was keenly aware that Henry’s hand was still on his knee, holding on, digging in. There was a moment when it went from tickling to almost painful. He drained his drink before leaning forward and setting the glass on the table. He looked down. The hand was still there. 

“So I hear you’re into blokes, Tom,” Henry said, taking a deep drink of scotch.

Tom felt an old, familiar panicked feeling. Was this some kind of test? Prelude to a beating? He looked at Henry’s hand. It was on the move now, traveling up his leg. He started to sweat.

“Blokes?” Tom said, trying to sound calm. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, around. Wolsey said you weren’t one for the strip club.” 

As if that meant anything. He was just… Well, he supposed grieving. Nine years was a long time to grieve, but since when was there a time limit? And Wolsey never pushed. Tom was always quietly thankful to be passed over for lads’ nights out. Besides, he’d managed a place like that in Rome. Not much fun once you’ve been on the other side of the railing.

“Well, it’s just…” He cleared his throat. “Wolsey said what exactly?”

Henry smiled and set his drink on the table. The hand went still for the moment. Tom tried to think of kittens or the stock exchange, but he couldn’t stop himself from responding, tensing his buttocks, being glad his trousers were no where near as tight as Tudor’s were. He took a gulp of air wishing it was whiskey. 

“Say, you think my retainer would stretch to another drink?”

Henry leaned over and picked up the bottle from where it rested on the floor, next to the sofa, removing his hand in the bargain. Tom was relieved and yet, he felt there was something unsatisfactory about the situation. He was worked up. It had been a long time since he’d been worked up.

Henry leaned forward and slopped an enormous quantity of scotch into his own glass, then Tom’s.

“Wolsey always liked tarts. You ever notice that about him?” Henry said. 

Tom’s stomach lurch at the word “tart.” Just what had Henry heard about him? 

“I knew he had some women tucked away here and there in the city,” Tom said, trying to sound casual. And it was true. Tom paid the rent on a Bayswater flat for a woman named Janet. It had always flattered Tom that Wolsey had trusted him with these things.. “But hey, we’re talking about the man as if he’s dead.”

“Out of the game, though. Might as well be.”

“I suppose.”

“You’ve changed the subject, Tom. From your being a homosexual to Wolsey’s health. Very deft way you have.”

“Comes with the job and I’m not a homo--”

“I’m giving you a hard time, mate. Relax,” Henry said, slapping his hand down again on Tom’s knee. He was definitely being teased, bullied, but there was no real menace there, no threat. Tom had long ago learned to go on instinct. He said nothing and took another sip of his drink. It would be over soon. Miss Boleyn would text again and Henry would excuse himself and say goodnight. Tom would be standing in the corridor studying the art and listening to the fixtures buzz while he waited for the lift. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

He glanced around the suite, calculating how much a place like this cost per night. Seven hundred easy. He toted up the costs of Tudor’s lifestyle factoring in items like the custom Italian shoes that Henry toed off without untying. Such a lot of waste. Tudor’s fees would revitalize Wolsey’s whole firm. The old man needed the case. He drained his glass. “About the rebranding. I know someone named Seymour. She’s a whiz at rebranding. We should bring her on board. If you’re still interested.”

“Tom, we’re celebrating, remember. I don’t want to talk shop.” Henry said, his hand moved a bit further up Tom’s thigh. Tom didn’t much like being touched without being asked. You couldn’t let a fellow bully you like this. And wouldn’t Tudor want him to stick up for himself? Isn’t that what this was? He studied Henry’s shoulders. With some geezers it was all tailoring. Not Tudor. The white shirt was cut mercilessly close and he could see the muscles clearly defined. It would have to be quick and dirty. No hope of taking him in a fair fight.

He set his glass down on the table with a deliberate click and took hold of Henry Tudor’s wrist, prying the enormous freckled hand free from his leg. Tom felt Henry’s pulse surging beneath his palm.

“Steady on, Tom. I was just messing with you.” Tudor narrowed his eyes to slits, weighing him up, wondering, he supposed, whether he really had the bottle to do whatever it was he was going to do next.

Tom gripped Henry’s wrist even tighter. 

“Are we going to wrestle then, Tom,” Henry asked. Something about it was so absurd that Tom dropped his hand. He sat back, laughing, pressing his thumbs into his eyes. 

“I had you going there though, didn’t I Tom? For a minute.”

“Not really. I knew Wolsey would never say anything like that.”

Henry snorted. “If you say so.”

“I’ve known the old man almost as long as you have and I’ve never had anything but kindness from him. I don’t think he would talk about me behind my back.”

“All right, all right. You are one loyal little prick, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” Tom said without trying to hide the sarcasm in his tone. Henry poured another round without asking, put the drink in Tom’s shaking hand.

“Cheers,” he said, taking a sip. “What do you care anyway? If I’m into blokes?”

“I don’t. It was just an assumption. I mean you never come out with the lads on Wolsey’s pub crawls.”

“Wolsey knows that I… I was married. I had a family… and it’s not my idea of a…”

“Oh. Divorced then?”

“No,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended.

“You said you _were_ married. _Had_ a family. What happened?”

“A car accident. My wife and daughters. I still have my boy, Gregory.”

“Jesus Christ, man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I mean it was a long time ago. Most people don’t know. But Wolsey does. That’s why he would never…”

“Wow, look. I was just taking the piss. Can we forget that happened?”

“Already forgotten, mate. Already forgotten,” Tom said, slapping his hand down on Henry’s knee. Henry started and then laughed. Tom had gotten his own back. He should take his hand away. There was still a chance to salvage the evening, to keep Henry as a client. Maybe it was the whiskey coursing through his blood, or maybe he was just in a shitty mood, but Tom didn’t take his hand away, instead spread his fingers apart, feeling the smooth wool beneath his palm. An Italian cloth; English tailoring. Or off the peg at Tom Ford’s. He could hear Henry’s breathing change, hear it come in shallower, quicker breaths. It served him right. Let him sweat.

“I mean, homosexual wouldn’t be the right word anyway. I dislike imprecise language, don’t you?”

“I--I guess,” Henry said.

“I suppose you’d say bisexual. I mean I’ve dated men, before I was married. I lived in Italy for a time,” Tom said, as if that explained anything. Henry nodded, his face turning crimson. Tom enjoyed Henry’s obvious discomfort. He also liked the feel of Tudor’s thigh beneath his hand. 

“That bloke you were talking to, was he your--”

“Bonvisi? Lord no. He’s happily married. With, I dunno what, five kids last time anyone counted.”

“So how does that work then? Being a bisexual. Do you do those app thingies, then?”

“Grindr? No, I’m old fashioned.”

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Henry said.

“No, I swear. I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, but it’s the truth,” Tom said and pushed his hand imperceptibly higher up Henry’s thigh.

“So you like all blokes or just some?” Henry asked, not taking his eyes off Tom’s hand.

“Just some. I mean, you don’t like all women, do you?”

“There’s a few I can do without. My ex for one.” Henry said and Tom felt the leg relaxed a bit under his hand.

“But you have your type.”

“Yeah. Of course.” 

“And that doesn’t include blokes.”

“No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Well for starters you haven’t asked me to take my hand off your leg.”

“Oh yeah, that. I guess I thought you were just getting your own back. That you’d stop when you thought you’d made me sweat enough.”

Tom laughed. “All right. That’s very sporting of you,” he said, giving his thigh a squeeze. Henry squeaked a little. “I’ll let you know when I think you’ve had enough.”

It was quiet for a while. Tom was about to remove his hand, end the game when Henry spoke:

“We used to play this game at school.”

Tom prayed silently that Henry was not going to reveal that he’d fucked a pig.

“What was the game?”

“Well, this actually. It was a bravery test. One fellow would put his hand on your leg and you would sort of let him keep going until you had to make him stop.”

“Right. We used to do the same thing. With girls, of course.”

“Really?” Henry said. Tom thought it was kind of sweet that such a thing had never occurred to him; that he might have missed out on groping the opposite sex instead of other boys.

“Had enough?” Tom asked. 

“No. I mean, unless you want to stop.”

Tom laughed. “I won’t think less of you either way.” Henry’s face was red and his eyes were clamped shut hard, like he was enduring great agony. Tom looked down at Henry’s trousers and could see a perfect outline of his cock, bulging against the gray wool. “Anyway, I think honor is satisfied.” He took his hand away. Henry’s eyelids fluttered open, he took a deep breath, and grabbed Tom’s hand, putting it back, this time on top of the bulge.

Tom reached over with his other hand and took hold of Henry’s bicep. “Look at me, Henry,” he said, giving him a little shake. Henry opened his eyes again. They wore a dreamy expression.

“We’re not playing the game any more, are we?” Henry asked, his voice hoarse. Tom shook his head. “What do we do now?” He looked boyish and afraid. Tom was sorry that he hadn’t left earlier.

“Whatever you want,” he said, taking his hand away from Henry’s crotch. “Do you want to go to bed? You’ve had a lot to drink.”

“Yeah alright, that sounds good Tom.” Henry struggled to his feet, swaying a bit. Tom stepped forward and Henry put his arm over him. Tom thought his knees would buckle under Henry’s weight. They moved awkwardly around the coffee table, avoiding knocking over the scotch, and staggered toward the bed. He felt the room spinning a bit. The last few drinks had been pretty big. 

“Upsadaisy!” Henry said, flopping onto the bed face down. Tom started pulling back the bed clothes to cover him. Henry rolled over and looked up at him. “Tom?”

“Yes?” 

“Where are you going?”

“Well, I thought I’d have a lie down on your sofa until I feel up to calling a taxi. I’ll be out of here by morning, I promise. You won’t have anything to lie about with Miss Boleyn.”

“No, no, Tom. When I said I wanted to go to bed, I meant--”

“I know. And I’m very flattered. Another time, maybe. I’d like that, but--”

“You’re very noble, Tom. I don’t care if your father was… what was he?”

“Besides a drunken bastard? He was a mechanic. He owned a garage in Putney.”

“A mechanic. Yes, Wolsey said something. Wolsey’s father was a butcher, you know.”

Tom winced in the dark. “That’s why Wolsey hired me. Said we were cut from the same cloth.”

Henry sat up suddenly with a lurch. He took hold of Tom’s hand and began to tug at it. “Sit down here on the bed. It’s all right.”

Tom sat down. Henry leaned against him. He reached up and stroked Henry’s head, ran his hand through his beard.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” Henry said. “We should kiss, don’t you think?”

He laughed. “I’m not so good at being noble once the kissing starts.”

“Right. Noble Tom Cromwell. Lately of Putney. Put yourself to bed on my sofa,” he said and flopped back down on the bed. Tom stood up and covered him with the spread. He found a blanket in the wardrobe and put out the lights in the sitting room. He heard Henry’s snores before he was half way across the suite. 

+++  
Tom dreamed of Henry Tudor and his red beard. Dreamed of running his fingers through it on a dance floor. Was that disco? He woke to the sound of a phone playing “Stayin’ Alive,” somewhere in Henry’s sofa. He dug under the cushions and found the device. It was 8:52. Shit. Anne Boleyn’s face was looking back at him from the lock screen. So much for getting a taxi home in the middle of the night. He shielded his face from the daylight streaming in the curtains. Henry’s bed was empty, the covers thrown back. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. How had he slept through all of this?

“Is that Anne?” Henry’s voice called through the shower door. Tom heard the sound of the shower being turned off.

“Yeah.”

“Give it to me,” Henry ordered. He walked into the steaming room, holding the vibrating phone at arm’s length, averting his eyes. 

“Thanks,” Henry said, “Mind handing me a towel as well?”

He handed a fluffy white bath towel to Henry. It was warm. There was steam running through the pipes in the towel rack. You could always tell the quality of a hotel by the towels. These were nicer than any he’d at home since…

The phone ceased its tinny disco noise. He heard Henry set it down on the ledge in the shower, outside of the reach of the spray.

“Shit. I’ve missed her, ” Henry said, and Tom heard the squeak of the tap being twisted, followed by the rushing of water. He started to leave. Henry held the towel out of the shower. “Put this up will you?” 

He touched the now damp towel, following orders, then moving out of the room, in a hurry to get to work to salvage the day. He suddenly stopped, remembering Henry’s drunken proposition the night before. Looking up, he saw Henry standing naked and wet, beautiful, gazing back at him with a grin on his face. The shower door was propped open in front of him, blocking his way. Henry’s white skin was red from the hot water and reminded Tom of his deep blush the night before during their game. “I was wondering when you’d get an eyeful.”

Tom froze, waiting for further invitation, listening to the water pulsing down on Henry’s back and suddenly aware that he was wearing only what he’d slept in: his vest and pants and, absurdly, a pair of black socks. Henry was aware too, looking down at the tent being formed in his boxers. 

“Your socks are getting wet, mate,” Henry said. And they were. He could feel the warm water soaking his toes. He pulled his socks off and tossed them in the corner. “You might as well go all in, Tom,” Henry whispered. Tom reached up and put his hand on Henry’s neck, felt the pack of muscle there, slick and warm under his hand. Henry pulled him easily into the shower: oh Tom had been daft to think he could take him in a fight! The door banged shut and their mouths came together in the slick heat of the shower. Tom felt his clothing being saturated, growing heavy so that when Henry’s large index finger gave an exploratory poke under the waistband of his pants, they simply dropped to the floor with a splash. He pulled the vest off himself and Henry bent down to kiss his shoulder, which seemed to Tom a very lovely thing to do. He reached up and cradled Henry’s head in his arms as much to steady himself as anything. Henry exhaled, sighing his name into Tom’s shoulder.

Tom put his hand on Henry’s cock, pushed back the foreskin, heard Henry gasp in his ear as he slid his hand down the stiff length of him. Henry reached -- or, rather, fumbled -- for Tom’s cock and held him tentatively. Tom started in on Henry with strong, quick strokes, hoping it would encourage him to reciprocate. When Henry didn’t respond and dropped his cock altogether, Tom stopped, worried for a moment that he had changed his mind.

“God, Tom, don’t stop,” Henry panted. Part of Tom wanted to finish Henry quick, just for the satisfaction of reducing him to a whimpering mass, but then there was his own pleasure to think about. He couldn’t be sure of anything but a slide on his own while Henry got dressed. If he was going to fuck a client, put his career in sixes, it wasn’t going to be for a lonely slide in the shower. Jesus, that was his life already. 

Tom released Henry and grabbed a bottle of shower gel off the shelf. He squinted at the label. Something from Lush, grapefruit and lime. He squirted some in his palm and put the bottle away. Rubbing his hands together, he began to lather Henry’s shoulders and chest, moving in circular patterns. Henry closed his eyes, let his head ease back a bit. “That’s nice,” he said. Tom kept going, soaping Henry’s abdomen, his arms, working his way down to his cock and scrotum. He put some more gel on his hands and knelt on the floor of the shower, scrubbing Henry’s thighs which were pale with almost invisible hair, like a woman who had never shaved. He put his face against Henry’s thigh, nuzzled it with his own unshaven cheek. He soaped the back of Henry’s legs and just up to his arse. He felt Henry’s body stiffen as he separated his cheeks ever so slightly. He looked up and Henry was dazed, lolling his head back. There was a moment when the washing stopped and the penetration started, delicately at first, just the tip of his index finger, briefly. Henry’s breath came faster and he turned around so that Tom’s face was now pressed to the back of his thighs. Tom put his finger in his own mouth--the soap was long gone--and then put it all the way into Henry slowly, knuckle by knuckle. Henry groaned and leaned forward, bracing himself against the wall. He heard the soft, wet sounds of Henry stroking himself. Tom’s heart started racing at the thought of Henry touching himself for want of him. 

Tom stood up and opened the shower door, leaning out to reach for a basket of toiletries on the counter. The damn thing was wrapped in silver cellophane. He ripped into it savagely and found a bottle of lotion: opening it, he cursed the bloody bastards who put those foil tops over every fucking thing for no reason as his wet, trembling fingers tore at the bottle. At last he got the bottle open and squeezed a thick blob of lotion out onto his hand. 

He stepped back into the shower. Henry was still leaning against the wall, facing away, though he’d stopped stroking himself. Tom dipped his finger into the lotion and then knelt again, brushing his face against the back of Henry’s legs. Again he put his finger slowly into Henry and this time Henry bent over farther to give him greater access. He heard again the longed-for sound of Henry pleasuring himself. Tom stood as much out of the spray as possible, lathering his own hard cock with the lotion. It felt cold and he wondered for a moment if that had bothered Henry or whether it had been soothing. 

He could hear Henry breathing faster and, as he put the tip of his cock up to his arsehole, Henry tensed, blocking him.

“It’s alright, Henry. We don’t have to.”

“I want you to. Just...just take it easy, mate.”

“Of course,” Tom said, almost insulted, but then he thought of the game the night before and imagined Henry still playing it in his mind. Far from being tortured, he was clearly into it, his hand flying up and down his own cock, leaning his shoulder hard against the shower wall. If Tom didn’t get in there soon, it would be all over but for the shouting -- or the whimpering, as the case may be. And he really wanted to know which one it was going to be. 

Tom put his hands on Henry’s hips, pulled himself into position again. This was not how he’d pictured things the night before when he’d dozed off on Henry’s sofa. He’d imagined Henry on top of him in the bed, pressing down on him, laying him open. That was what had always been the turn on with blokes, their crushing weight, their strength. But here he was on the other side of things, a virgin in a sense, every bit as much as Henry. He pushed the tip of his cock in and he could feel Henry tensing, fighting it.

“You’ve got to relax a bit,” Tom said, and he felt Henry loosening up beneath him. He went in deeper. Henry had stopped pulling at himself, his breathing had slowed, and he thrust his pelvis back, tilting his arse upwards. Tom was all the way in now, feeling the coiled tension of Henry’s whole body pulling at his cock. He was as gentle as he could manage though Christ the grip was intense, beyond anything he had experienced before. He fell into a slow rhythm. Henry started to take up his own cock, but Tom reached around and took hold of it for him and goddamn that was something: the feel of it in his own hand as if it was his, all the while his own cock being pulled apart by Henry’s body. 

Henry came, shuddered, folded over beneath him, and it seemed as though he’d lost his balance. Tom tried to hang on and get in one more thrust before they went both went down on the hard wet floor of the shower. Tom slumped against Henry, not finished. He pulled out gently nonetheless and Henry sighed. Tom stood and turned the tap off.

They got out of the shower and toweled off, alone in their corners of the steaming bathroom, not looking at each other. Tom abandoned his towel to the streaming floor and walked through to Henry’s room without looking back at him. He climbed onto the rumpled spot on the bed where Henry had slept and arranged a pillow behind his back, pulling the sheet up over his erection as if it were a dead body at a morgue. 

Henry walked through with a look of determination on his face that reminded Tom of the night before when they were playing Henry’s ruddy bravery test. He wished he could go back to the way it had been in the dark, when he had stroked Henry’s beard and talked about kissing. Henry sat on the edge of the bed and the sun, coming through the window, lit up his translucent white flesh, revealing an almost continuous carpet of freckles across his back. Tom counted them idly as he reached out and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry turned his head and kissed his fingers. Tom felt a bit light-headed but they were in the bed, thank god, and there was no danger of going down and drowning. 

Henry climbed on top of Tom and, as they kissed, Tom relaxed back into the bed. He felt Henry’s weight--and he must be 13 or 14 stone-- pressing them both down into the mattress. He put his arms around Henry, felt his back, the muscle under his palms, the lovely firmness of him under his hands. His fingers drifted down to Henry’s waist, gripped his arse, imagined what it would be like to have all that body thrusting inside him, but Henry’s cock hung limp against his stomach. Just then they both heard “Stayin’ Alive” echoing around in the bathroom and held their breaths for a moment.

“Oh sod it,” Henry said.

Tom laughed. 

“What?”

“Your choice of words…”

“Oh. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Tom said, and took Henry’s beard playfully in his hands and tugged at it. Henry kissed him hard and, when they broke apart panting, Tom licked his own hand and took a hold of Henry’s cock, pulling back the foreskin, coaxing it to life. Henry did likewise and, dear god, Henry’s hot wet hand on him, crushing him. Henry shifted aside to accommodate both their arms underneath his body. Tom watched Henry’s face soften: no longer the clenched, pained expression of the bravery test but that dreamy look that Tom had attributed to booze the night before. Henry’s erection was still mushy in his hand but not out of the question. He slid down in the bed and, though it pained him because it forced Henry to let go of his cock, he dove under the sheet and put all of Henry’s cock in his mouth. He tasted of grapefruit and lime and god bless Lush, he thought, as he felt Henry’s steadily hardening cock at the back of his throat. He worked with his hands and his mouth until Henry was as stiff and long as he’d been in the shower. 

And though he wanted Henry to fuck him, to just know what to do, to knock him back and pull his knees up and go at him, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. They didn’t have proper lube or condoms. He would organize things better next time. Tom got up out of the bed and padded back into the bathroom to get the lotion. He picked up Henry’s phone and switched it off. When he returned, Henry was leaning against the headboard with his legs crossed and a pillow across his lap. There was a slight smile on his face.

Tom climbed on top of him and took the pillow away, tossing it to the side. He straddled Henry, facing away from him. He took a handful of lotion and rubbed it on Henry’s cock. Closing his eyes, he imagined that dreamy expression as he lowered himself down onto the tip of Henry’s cock. Henry reached up and balanced him and he went slowly, because it had been a long time and because it burned like hell at first. It was a bit awkward, never his favorite position this, too much chance that things could slip out of place, but he kept at it and eventually Henry was doing most of the work, thrusting up into him, cradling him in his arms. Tom was able to use one hand to grip his own cock and in a few strokes brought himself to the brink. “Tom I’m coming,” Henry said, sounding breathless, helpless. 

“It’s alright,” Tom said and let himself go too. He felt Henry release into him, a glorious warmth. He turned around to face him, wiping a palm full of his own cum on the sheet. Henry pulled him down onto his chest and stroked Tom’s head, which was lovely and stemmed the tide of the hangover that was already reasserting itself. Despite the sun streaming in and the noise of traffic, despite the fact that he had once or twice thought he’d heard his own phone vibrating angrily in his jacket somewhere in the other room, Tom fell asleep on Henry’s chest. 

+++

“Babe. I’m telling you. I was in the shower. I didn’t hear you ring.” Henry was in the bathroom with the door shut, but Tom could still hear the conversation clearly.

There was a knock on the outer door of the suite. Tom got up, felt his legs wobble a bit underneath him. Tom heard a man’s voice announce, “Room service,” and pulling on a white bathrobe that was hanging in Henry’s closet, he opened the door a crack. Tom stood there a bit dazed as the trolley was pushed in, heard himself addressed as “Mr. Tudor,” and before he’d really thought about it, he had signed the room service check -- full English for two -- with Henry’s name. 

“Babe, my breakfast is here. Gotta run. I’ll see you soon. It’s good news, I swear! I’ve got a line on how to fix the whole situation. You’ll see.” 

Tom’s head throbbed. He poured himself a cup of tea and started looking around the suite for his clothes, remembering that his smalls were lying tragically soaked in the bathroom. 

“Tom, what are you doing, mate?” Henry asked, walking out of the bathroom in a matching white terry cloth robe.

“Thought I’d get dressed. Get out of your hair. You haven’t got a pair of socks you could lend me? And a pair of pants, I suppose. I mean give to me. I guess. Don’t know when I’d return them.”

“Sit down and eat, Tom, you’re babbling. You must be starved. I know I am,” Henry said, and began lifting the covers off the breakfast, digging into the bacon with his bare fingers. 

“I’m good. I really just need to find my phone,” Tom said, and searched the suite until he saw his jacket lying across the back of the sofa. He went into the breast pocket, opened his phone, and pulled up the text program. There were nine messages from Rafe. The first six were emojis. The last three were variations on “Where the fuck are you???!!!” 

“At least drink your tea,” Henry said.

“Alright,” Tom said, setting his phone down on the trolley. He took a piece of toast and sipped at the tea. “You haven’t got any paracetamol, have you?”

“In the bathroom. In my shaving kit. It’s open on the sink. Help yourself.”

The bathroom floor was icy under his bare feet. He saw his socks balled up in the corner. He picked them up. They were wringing wet. He found his pants and vest sodden in the corner of the shower. Not knowing what to do with them, he threw the lot in the sink. He stood for a moment, studying himself in the mirror. He was balding, graying, hardly the smooth-faced boy he’d been in Italy. He looked more like the old men that used to proposition him down by the docks when he was working his three card monty. Tom’s hands fumbled with the paracetamol. It was one of those goddamned blister packs. He found nail scissors in the kit and managed to cut a couple of tablets free. He brought them back through into the sitting room and took them with a swallow of tea.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, looking down at his breakfast.

“I didn’t know how you like your eggs so I just had them do scrambled. I hope that’s alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. Thanks..”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Henry said between bites. He was halfway through his plate already.

“Very kind of you. Very thoughtful,” Tom said into his tea cup. He took a mouthful of scrambled egg. It sat there in his mouth until he could force it down with another gulp of tea. 

“I’m not a full English sort of person, I’m afraid. At least not this morning,” Tom told him.

“There’s more toast. There’s jam and even a little Marmite somewhere,” Henry said, fishing around on the trolley. 

“Look, you’re very kind, I’m sure. I’m just not hungry. I really need to get into the office. My assistant is going to skin me alive--”

“Can’t you just phone them? Tell them you’re with a client? Isn’t that the truth, anyway?” Henry asked.

“You realize I can’t take you on as a client after this?”

“What? Why?” Henry looked crestfallen.

“It’s against the rules. I could be disbarred.”

“Isn’t there some way? Someone who could take the case, under your advice?”

“Well, yes. There’s one person. You’d have to wait until he gets back on his feet, of course.”

“Wolsey. Tom, if I didn’t know better I’d say you planned this whole thing, seduced me, just to get me back with Wolsey.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t?” Tom said with a grimace. “I suppose I could dry my things out. Does this place have a hair dryer?”

“There’s one in the closet, but Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Please stay put. Call work. Tell them you’re out sick. You can dry your things later.”

“Alright,” Tom said, reaching for his phone. “I’ll just text Rafe..”

“You text Rafe. Then finish your toast. Sit a while. Give the tablets a chance to work on that hangover.”

Tom nodded. Henry dragged a bit of sausage through the last of the baked beans. “If you’re not going to eat that, Tom, can I have it?”

“Of course. You paid for it.” He slid the plate across the trolley. “Though I forged your signature.” 

“Your second criminal act of the day,” Henry said and swallowed a morsel of Tom’s bacon.

“Second? What was the first?”

“You don’t know?” Henry said, looking like the cat who’d got the cream.

“That? That’s not a crime anymore, Mr. Tudor. Though I’m not your brief, I can tell you that much for free.”

“I know. I’m referring to theft. You stole something.”

“What?” Tom wracked his brains trying to imagine what Henry was up to. He poured another cup of tea, not taking his eyes off Henry. He brought the cup to his lips.

“My heart,” Henry said.

Tom started choking on his tea. It went all down his robe. It went through his nose, which jolly well hurt. Henry reached over and patted him on the back. 

“Steady, old man.”

“Don’t joke about things like that,” Tom said when he’d recovered.

“I was serious. Oh I know, it was sappy, but I do want to see you again. Whether or not you’re my brief.”

“What time is your fiancee coming by?”

“Don’t say that word.”

“What? Fiancee? Would you prefer betrothed? Intended?” Tom hid a smile behind his napkin.

“Tom, please. Shut it. Things with Anne are...complicated.”

“Is that why you looked so cozy with your assistant last night?”

“God, Mary.”

“Relax. You’ll sort it out. Or not, and then one of them will kill you and the old man can be executor of your will. He’d like that. To know you were thinking of him in the end.”

“I’d thank you to not look so cheerful discussing my probable demise.”

“I’m sorry. Look, do you want my advice?”

“I feel you’re about to give it to me anyway,” Henry said.

“Focus on business. The complications -- and I include myself here -- will sort themselves out.”

“Has that worked for you, Tom? Focusing on business?” Henry said, eating the last of Tom’s sausage.

Tom sighed. It had not worked for him. He’d had nine years of focusing on business. 

+++

It was nearly mid-day when Tom found his car in the hotel car park. His socks were still damp and his feet felt clammy. He’d had to focus his efforts with the hotel hair dryer on his pants. In the end he’d needed to make a quick exit, down one lift while Anne Boleyn came up in the other. He'd been giddy on the way down, heart still beating fast, thinking of their good-bye kiss.

It was pretty funny, like in a film, until you were sitting in the dim car park with literally cold feet and a sore arse. 

He started the car: soothing tones reminded him to fasten his safety belt.

It would never work. Henry would never follow through and take his advice. It was sporting of him to even consider it. All part of the bravery test, he supposed. Tom reached over and plugged in his phone to charge it. He sent a text to Rafe: “On my way. Feeling better. Don’t cancel the afternoon apts yet.” As he exited the car park, his phone buzzed. He picked it up. A panda bear. He laughed to himself. Well, that was something anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Onstraysod for editing/beta help.


End file.
